PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF Prodigal Prodigy
by Akylae
Summary: COMPLETE. A patient, a prosecutor and a parent force House to face an issue he ran from for decades. In-character House-Wilson friendship & Slight Huddy. Post season 3, No ducklings, no numbers. Enjoy. Constructive criticism welcome.
1. Summer House

STANDARD DISCLAIMERS APPLY, MADE FOR PRACTICE, NOT PROFIT.  
PLEASE REVIEW, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM WELCOME.

**PRODIGAL PRODIGY**

_**Summer House**_

Ground flies under long strides as House covers miles in a near flying sprint. The morning air is a cool breeze over him, tingling in heaving lungs, filling him with a sense of freedom.

His cell phone begins its frenzy tune of Baba O'Riley intro but the man ignores it. A dull ache begins radiating through his left quadriceps. The louder the music, the greater the pain, breaking into a paralyzing cramp at the percussions. House staggers on one foot, reaching for the stiff, sore muscle.

Hand meets thigh and his eyes flutter open to the bedroom ceiling, cell phone incessant on the nightstand. Writhing with pain, he barely manages to grab the thing and shut it up. Not a moment later it starts again.

House props up annoyed, fumbling with the device. "What?" He barks into the mike.

"_Greg?"_ His father speaks from the other end.

Anger gives way to anxiety. "It's me."

"_Did you just hang up on me?" _The man is baffled more than anything.

"Accidentally." The response comes out meek.

"_Oh. Well, I called to wish you a happy birthday son." _Johns is friendly._ "Your mother would really like to see you some time soon."_ The gravely voice accuses oh so subtly. _"We haven't seen you in a year."_

"Sorry. Patients. I'll try and come by for the weekend."

House can scarcely pick up the reply and greeting before shutting the phone on the dial tone. Anger returns with a vengeance as he flings the phone across the room, the device saved from shattering only by the pile of laundry in the corner.

Rolling over, he glances at the alarm clock, which reads 9 am.

"Too late for that dream." He blows a frustrated raspberry.

Dry-swallowing two pills he readies for the day ahead, literately dragging himself out of bed.

…

Squeak-thud, squeak-thud, squeak-thud.

House rolls his eyes in frustration. He hoped to breeze through maternity ward unnoticed, but limping is less than stealthy. Cane hung over one forearm he shuffles on, hoping no one would connect the unusual noise with him. Peeking round the corner, House glances in search of ...

The Dean, staring through glass walls of the nursery at all the annoying little tykes.

House grins, ready to pounce the latest quip on her pregnancy, when Cuddy grabs hold of her arms, rubbing at them in a self-comforting motion. Expressive eyes dim as the elation of impending mischief deflates. Something is very wrong. House fidgets for a moment, weighting the urge to walk over against the fear of turning things awkward. He opts for the elevator.

Doors ping open on the ground floor.

"House?" Wilson's greeting comes surprised. "Who died?"

House doesn't look up. "She lost it." He utters in a low tone.

The younger man needs no explaining. There is only one she, and his friend's posture makes clear that _it_ wasn't her sanity.

"She…told you?" He tilts his head.

House steps out, passing Wilson without regard to pointless social niceties. "She didn't need to. Her internal ticker is so punctual it's predictable." He hobbles over to a coffee machine by the clinic waiting room. "A week of normal, followed by a hopeful, edgy, and sad." He adds a coin for each week.

"Except last month when she was happy." He huffs. "It's supposed to be barfing time, but she's upstairs bawling her eyes out at other people's bundles of responsibility - and not in a good way."

"Oh…"

Neither speak. The sound of hot liquid pouring into a plastic cup underlines their musings.

"So now she's riding you, huh?"

House sips at his first daily dose of caffeine. "Nope." The answered pops out.

Wilson's face takes on a thoughtful appearance. "You've walked in here on your own volition? Quick, somebody call Vatican – it's a miracle." He mockingly looks around in search of an idle nurse.

"A sad dean is a resigned dean. No fun forcing her to force me into clinic duty unless she bites back."

"Right..." Wilson smiles, knowing better. "I do believe you've grown a heart."

House looks to Wilson's left and right in search of something. "No toys?"

"John H Giles' new album."

"…isn't out yet." House concludes.

"Your copy is." Wilson is smug.

Elation inflates blue eyes to a comic size.

A finger rises in warning. "I demand to be fed and entertained or the disc gets microwave-ed."

"Birthday party." Hosue sighs, before a misfit smile graces his scruffy face "Pizza and porn it is!"

"See you tonight." Wilson boards the elevator.

House ignores the farewell, instead watching the fairly vacant waiting room studiously. The very small number of patients foretells a slow day. For his first patient, he chooses a teen dozing in the chair. The guy's head is flung back, eyes closed and expression achy. House towers over the unsuspecting prey and, to the surprise of other patients, sniffs. A predictable aroma of alcohol and acid invades his nose.

"BOO!"

Instead of jumping a foot, the guy merely pulls away groaning.

"Hangover." House states, not worried that his patient isn't all that attentive. "And contrary to popular belief, you don't fight fire with fire." He thumbs at the lobby. "Coffee's over there. You can't have mine."

A nice little old lady, seated two chairs away, eyes him with disbelief and disapproval. Annoyed, House glares daggers her way. "Your head hurts too?" He sounds like he would bite it off.

"Well, y-"

Before granny can blink, House is at her side, two fingers thrust in her forehead.

She pulls away wincing. "What-?"

"Sinuses." He cuts her off again. "You need inhalation. Cook yourself some chicken soup, that way you can drink it later - pharmaceutical two in none."

As she continues to stare bewildered, House turns around for his final patient. A pre-teen girl and her chubby but pale Mom sit on the other end of the room. Turning to the girl he moves for the kill.

"What's wrong with her?" He points the cane at mom.

"Um, when I gave her the report card she, ah…"

His brow shot up. "Fainted?"

The girl nods. Reaching for the pocket of his suit jacket, House pulls out the signature red lollypop, handing it to a befuddled mom.

"Low blood sugar. Never skip breakfast when on diet." He makes an exaggeratedly thoughtful face. "Actually, never skip breakfast, period. NEXT!"

House smiles from ear to ear, the silence music to his ears. Returning to the nurses' station he casually drops all three files form the in-box to the out-box without entertaining the thought of paperwork.

"You just prescribed food to three patients." Brenda notes without looking from the LCD screen.

"Let your food be your medicine." He pops a Vicodin.

"And your medicine your food." She finishes the quote.

House grins pleased with another verbal-sparing partner. "Page me in an hour. I'm going for a jog."

Limping toward the rear exit, House picks up the wail of a rapidly approaching siren. An ambulance careens round the corner at full speed, screeching to a halt at the emergency entrance. The siren dies abruptly as the cargo doors fling open, releasing two paramedics.

Automatic doors slid aside for the gurney as House backs off into a wood-tiled wall and out of its way. As they race past, he catches a glimpse of the boy lying unconscious; the thick compress on his scalp stained a deep shade of red.

"He's on steroids!" House shouts after them.

One medic turns back baffled just as the emergency room doors closed behind her. House rolls his eyes and limps inside, chin tipped at the kid.

"The oozing head wound made you overlook his red nose." He walks over to where resident staff takes over form the ambulance crew. "Since he's not a reindeer, its either booze, infection or allergy and judging by the season and school uniform - neither contagious nor alcoholic. You better not give him anything that won't play nice with other drugs." He helps himself to a pair of latex gloves on the way.

A short, blond nurse nods, starting the boy on O neg. and IV antibiotics. Dropping on a chair, House wheels it behind the bed head. Unfolding the sterile cloth form the suture kit, he proceeded with patching the third-grader.

"What happened?" He glances up at her ID clip between stitches. "…Gina."

"Tripped on recess." A young doctor replies in her stead as he plugs the boy to monitors.

"Says who?"

"Classmate told teacher, told medic, told us."

House snorts at the real-life version of a telephone game. "Check his arms and legs."

Rolling up his sleeves and pant legs, he finds them free of injuries.

"All clear, nothing 's wrong."

"Everything 's wrong." House stares him down. "Torso takes priority over limbs, head over torso. Kid almost cracked his skull yet has no scratch." He ties up the sutures. "Reflexes didn't kick in." Gloves snap off. "Something 's messing with his brain." He flings them into the waste bin. "Wake him."

Gina empties a syringe into the IV line. Moments after, the boy blinks awake, a bit confused but unafraid.

"You're in a hospital." House preempts any questions while taking a pen light form his chest pocket. "Don't blink." A moment later, he turns it over and moves the other end in front of the kid's face in a series of patterns. "How did you fall?"

"Must have tripped."

"Don't remember?" House moves around to check the ears.

"No." The boy shakes his head, the action telling House dizziness is out of equation.

House appears on the other side, tongue depressor in hand. "Open wide. … All clear."

Rolling back to the foot of the bed, he pulls the pen along one sole and it curls away in response. Pocketing the pen, House reaches for the boy's throat with both hands, feeling the tonsils and counting heart rate at once.

"Take your shirt off." House grabs a stethoscope.

"Can I keep the undershirt on?" The boy works down the buttons. "I'm cold."

"Feeling cold." House corrects, his knuckles pressed against the kid's forehead. "A little warm." Pouted lips jerk side to side as he mulls over. "Just tuck it in tight."

The boy obeys happily.

"Take one deep breath; cough once, than hold your breath. Got it?"

"Deep breath, cough, hold breath." He repeats before moving through the routine.

"Chest sounds fine." House removes the stethoscope. "You trip often?"

The kid looks confused.

"I noticed an old bruise on your side."

He shrugs. "I dunno."

Before House can make more inquiries, the door swooshes behind him.

"Hello Matt." Cuddy greets, receiving a small smile in return. "I'm Doctor Cuddy. I called your dad and told him about the accident." She approaches the bed.

Matt's carefree expression fades into sheepish reservation as the dean comes over, which she tries to ease by a light tussle on his hair.

"He'll come to pick you up after work."

"Okay." Matt replies quietly, eyes fixed on his hands.

"Not okay." House stands up. "Failed tripping reflex and memory loss."

"Temporary confusion is normal for a concussion." She explains the symptoms away.

House waves her wrong. "Chicken and egg. Sucking reflex caused the fall."

"Have you tested his responses?"

"Withdrawal reflexes are working." He admits. "Vitals are ambiguous."

"You have until six PM for observation and non-invasive tests only." She stepped up to him. "Got it?" Her authorative tone allows no quarrel.

"Fine." House mutters. "All right people, I want blood works, urine sample, throat and nose swabs for infections and head CT for structural damage." He orders without looking at the interns." Page me when it's done." He strides out, long legs carrying him to the rear exit.

Cuddy catches up in sprint. "Where are you going?"

"Breakfast." He pushes open the door, but turns around with a thoughtful squint. "Where's mom?"

"Died little over a year ago - car accident." She preempts his idea.

A nod and he is gone.

…

House walks from the hoagie stand zipping up, slim cane rocking from the crook of his arm. His eyes snap wide open to the sight of a short but massive cop chaining his bike.

"Hey!" He moves over, long limbs carrying him fast despite the limp. "The hell are you doing?"

"You parked on a handicapped spot."

"I am one!" House holds the cane bottom-side-up in a threatening, phalusoid gesture.

"Than you aren't capable of driving a bike."

"If that were true, you'd think I'd have an accident in three years." He digs out a license.

The cop squints. "Disability certificate."

"Cane?" House waves the thing in front of him.

"Acting?" The other man replies.

Pissed, House undoes his belt in a blink, jeans slipping to his knees. "Satisfied!" Expressively his hands fling to either side, large scar making pedestrians freeze in their steps.

"That's it." The cop snaps, spinning him around, cuffs snapping to place tightly. "You're under arrest for public obscenity and disrespecting a police officer."

"What?" Is all House can say before rough hands shove him in the back of a police car.

…

"One cane, black epoxy." A policeman notes from behind the wire-mesh window. "One leather jacket, black." He pulls an orange bottle from one pocket.

The arresting cop takes the prescription drug. "Veecodin." He mispronounces before giving House an inquisitive look.

"Pain meds for the grand canyon." House glares back.

The clerk squints, cogs working. "I remember you, you're Tritter's case."

House frowns in a poor attempt at confusion.

"Get narcotics." He speaks to someone in the back of the room. "Tell'em the junky doctor is back."

House rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"One cell phone." The clerk continues. "Wanna use the call now?"

House takes the device and dials J, the sole name 'J.E.W.' popping up. A few rings later Wilson picks up.

"_House?"_

"I'm in jail." The words plummet like dead weight.

"_Wha- Never mind. I'll pick you up on my lunch break." _A dial tone concludes their conversation.

House closes his phone, tossing it to the clerk window. "Lock me up, sheriff."

A guard leads him into the single cell and House seats himself on the cot, springs protesting even under his lanky form. For a long while he sits in silence, staring out until a familiar footfall catches his attention.

"You mooned a cop!?" Wilson shouts his incredulity, one guard at his side waiting for the exchange to play out.

House shrugs. "Idiot wanted evidence of my cripple-hood."

"Normal people explain their misunderstandings_ away_, why do you insist on escalating yours?"

"I'm an anomaly?" House offers, now mere inches form the bars.

Wilson sighs with futility of arguing with such a character. "Go ahead." He speaks to the cop who proceeds promptly.

"We found Vicodin on his person." Tritter's voice joins in. "Perscribed."

"He developed tolerance to weaker analgesics." Wilson explains before House can bury himself deeper.

"Have you tried non-opioids?"

"Side effects presented themselves. Heartburns and palpitations among others." He delivers the line as if rehearsed.

Frowning at the medically sound excuse, Tritter walks out.

Wilson relaxes visibly. "Let's go."

…

"I see you've been doing eliminations." Wilson comments as he enters the inner diagnostics, eyes affixed on the whiteboard. Next to the symptoms, a dozen conditions are listed and crossed out.

House holds up another scan to bright sunlight and scrutiny. "The lab rats took my order to zero-in on it a little too literately."

"Ruled out everything." Wilson follows.

CT images join the small heap of negative results. "It's not poisoning, it's not infection, congenital, injury…"

Seating himself on the glass table, Wilson crosses his arms. "Maybe it's not systemic."

"Or it is." House turned from the board. "Not in the brain but in the support systems."

"Metabolic?"

"Wiring fine, not enough juice." House wrote down metabolic in big letters. "f-MRI."

"What if it's not the brain, just vascular. Mildest bumps result in bruising and he doesn't remember anything because there's nothing _to_ remember."

"Frail capillaries. Me like."

…

Doors slide open with a quiet rumble as House joins his patient. "Wanna see something cool?"

"What?"

"We've got a tube that tells what you're thinking about in real time." He proceeds peeling sensor wires form the boy.

"Cool."

"Lo five." House offers a palm and Matt slaps away with gusto. "Hi five."

The boy obliges, his palm showing no signs of injury. One down, one to go.

"Let's go." House leads the way.

"How come _you're_ doing this test?" Matt gazes up at House with curiosity as the cranky doctor moves down a long hall.

"Because it's scaaary." House gives the kid a frightening look, leading the boy in. "Some people freak out when left in a small space forever." He continues with the horror explanation, tapping the exam surface to direct the kid.

"I'm not scared." Matt lays supine, but a small gulp tells otherwise.

"Of course not." House smirks before hobbling to the 'aquarium'. "Move and I'll club ya." He speaks into the microphone, cane held up for good measure.

"I'll run." Matt smiles amused at the threat made hollow.

House smirks his approval. "Smart-aleck."

With a button pushed, Matt is sucked into the large tube.

House leans into the chair, cane spinning idly while the machine hums. "You read comics?"

"Um-hum."

"Who's your favorite?"

"The Hulk." Replies an enthusiastic voice.

"You like him better as genius or giant?"

"Giant, duh."

House snorts. "Figures."

"You don't like him?" The kid is strung between surprised and disappointed.

"I'm more of a DC man myself." He evades.

"Which one is _your_ favorite?" Matt is curious.

A dirty grin takes over. "Wonder Woman."

"Ewww, gorse." Mat voices his disgust.

"Couple of years from now you'll be drooling over her."

"Will not!"

House smiles the broad grin of one who knows better. As the last of the images appeared on screen, he passes a hand over a weary face. "No lesions or masses." He speaks through a sigh.

"That's good, right?"

"Yesss." The word sizzles out a bit disappointed. "How 'bout a pop-quiz?"

…

Turning from the nurses station Cuddy almost slams into House.

"I need permission for nerve biopsy." He cuts straight to business.

As the initial shock wares off, she suppresses a frustrated groan. "I told you, no invasive tests."

"ANA, CBC, CT, F-MRI, ECG, EEG, LP, pick your letters, all done." For emphasis, he thrust the thick file under her nose. "Forgetful and clumsy as hell and no cause for it what so ever."

"Clumsy?" She flips through the lab reports.

"Couple of bruises, healing, nothing dangerous." He waves it off.

"Ragged red fiber?"

House puffs annoyed. "Like I wouldn't think of that one. No. He actually falls more during daytime."

"So the memory is back." She deduces. "Any other neural functions compromised?"

"Just finished testing – boring normal brain." He frowns.

"Well there you have it." She offers the file back. "No go watch TV or whatever you usually do to waste time."

"No clinic duty?" He looks insulted, file still hovering between the two of them.

"You did five minutes of it on your own for once. I'm not pushing my luck."

"Well?" He stands impatiently. "Aren't you gonna let me do the biopsy as reward? It is my birthday." He makes cute puppy eyes.

"NO." She slaps the file against his chest.

"Fine." House snatches it, holding out a hand. "Archive. Better patient history."

Cuddy fishes a key from her lab coat. "Anything to keep you from going Mr. Hyde on a ten year old."

…

Unceremoniously House barges into Cuddy's office. "The kid stays."

She stifles a frustrated groan. "The kid is fine. You made a bad call. Get over it."

"He's not going to _stay_ fine." House insists. "I'll bet you a weeks worth of clinic duty his condition will deteriorate."

Her interest piqued, Cuddy gives her full attention.

"In the last year the kid has suffered every germ that came along. Everyone wrote it of as him being sickly, but it's getting worse. Could it be an underlying cause left untreated?" He offers.

"You found nothing." She repeats.

"Yet."

His beeper goes haywire in moral support. A glance later he storms out without explanation.

The click of high heals catches up with his two-part beat. Before them, a code team races to the same destination.

"He's in tachy!" a soprano warns at the insanely fast heartbeat.

Matt slips to unconsciousness, covered with cold, clammy sweat.

"Antiarythmic, stat." Yells a young doctor.

A needle is passed along with haste, its content soon flooding the boy's system.

"Pulse steady." The man smiles.

Relief washes over all but the ever inquisitive House, plucking the pulse-ox readout. A glance is enough to darken his features.

"What was he doing when this happened?" He tips his head Matt's way, while throwing the resident nurse a glance.

"Nothing." She stutters from fear and relief.

Cuddy sighs. "The kid stays."

…

House strides in diagnostics with the phone on his ear.

"County Gereral? This is doctor Homes from Princeton-Plainsboro. Matthew Brown was recently admitted to our clinic, could send us the medical files of his parents, Patrick and Sarah Brown. We need a more accurate medical history. Mail? diagnostic at ppth dot med."

The printer beeps and buzzes, papers spilling out an masse.

"Thank you. Could you send the last year's ER log while you're at it? Thanks." He hangs up only to dial another number. "Mercy Hospital?"

The next hour he spends studying the medical history of Matthew Brown, watching a distinct trend take form.

The boy's general health was slowly failing, his immunity struggling with every bug that cam along. Something about that is strangely familiar to House, yet realization remains tantalizingly out of reach.

…

House emerges from the elevator as the embodiment of Cool, shades and biker jacket on, flame-cane twirling. One confided hobble later, an empty orange bottle thumps against the pharmacy counter.

"Bartender?" House calls out, eager to clock out; his bag slinked over the shoulder. The click-clack of distant heels draws his attention up a pair of long legs and beyond.

"Now I know why it's called gluteus maximus."

Pausing in stride, Cuddy rewards him with a flattered smile and walks over interested. "What's with those?" She takes in the hefty set of stapled papers peering from his bag.

"More detailed history." He explains. "Looks like a long night."

"The father is here, you could just ask him."

House pockets a new dose of narcotics. "People lie, papers don't."

"Let me know what's your wish, birthday boy." She passes him with a smile.

"You know what I want." He leans to her but keeps his voice loud and clear.

"In your wet dreams." She strides away, teasing with a sway to her stride.

Wilson stands by the main exit, watching House approach. "Just for the jail incident, I want a jumbo."

House shakes his head. "Could you not bash the CD immediately? A perfectly healthy kid almost died on me today."

"Looks like you got your wish." The younger man chuckles and grabs the handle. "Saturday's the deadline!" He warns.

…

Night finds House alone on his sofa, cross-referencing Matt's and Patrick's files while surrounded by piles of medical textbooks. With a rub on blood shot eyes, he gives up on reading. Rising to his feet House decides to pace the bum leg out of paralysis. The easy music's slow beat is comfortable to walk to. He ambles about aimlessly until…

DRRRING!

"Go away!"

The ringing comes back double and twice as long.

"Coming already." He snarls, gimping to the door.

Opening it, he friezes in place, for the man on his stoop is Tritter, holding out an envelope.

"Your letter of indictment."

House snatches the damn thing, tearing it open in a mess of flakes. "For what?"

"Failure to comply to a court decision, substance abuse, repeated patient endangerment, sexual assault on a minor, repeated assault, breaking and entry, repeated instigation to breaking and entry..." Tritter trails off.

House stares at the long list in utter disbelief.

"Happy birthday, doctor." The man leaves with a mock smile.

House closes the door in slow motion, vacant eyes glued to the list of crimes. He drags himself back into the living room and sinks dejected into the sofa, shoulders slumped under the invisible burden.

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	2. House Breaking

_**House Breaking**_

It takes half an hour for House to make his way from the sticky haze of disbelief. But surfacing to acceptance is a harsh body blow that leaves him badly shaken. Prison looms large in his mind, its cold shadow sending icy needles up his spine. It is not the loss of freedom and control that he dreads, nor lousy treatment of chronic pain that is sure to ensue.

It is the disappointed but not surprised look on John House's face that will follow him out the courtroom as he is officially declared the dredge of humanity - the prophecy fulfilled.

It is ironic that way, a tragic comedy, that his life is a string of false prejudices come true. If society believing him to be an addict eventually turned him into one, if believing his addiction was a danger to his patients made him dangerous, he can only dread to think what ruin prison life would make of him.

Rising to unsteady feet he step-hops over to the bookshelf, mini staircase rolled in place. Slowly he ascends the small height, long arms feeling the topmost shelf for something. Fingers come around a rosewood box – _the_ rosewood box.

Seated at the armchair, he places the item on the ottoman, elbows on knees as he stares dull-eyed at the texture and beyond. There is a kind of trembling reverence as he opens the chest, sterile syringe, tourniquet and two vials of clear fluid waiting in dark plush.

With the slow, fluid grace of a Japanese tea maid he applies the tourniquet before loading both vials in the syringe. As the fist pumps up veins like mountain ranges pressing from under skin, blue eyes stare intently at the needle tip, kitchen light glistening on metal and liquid.

But his stare strays from the implement, falling to the papers behind it, indictment letter atop the med chart. Eyes flicker up and down, up and down, imaginary scales swaying side to side in his mind. Syringe left on the ottoman, he reaches for the phone on the endtable.

"Stacy…" House begins hesitantly, carrying the letter from coffee table to computer desk. "I'm calling in the favor. Check your mail and call me back." He turns the machine on, paper placed face-down on the scanner.

A series of clicks sends the document to Boston, racing at the speed of lightning. While at it, he starts the audio player, sullen chords streaming from the speakers.

A sad chuckle escapes him at the recognition of the song, and his low voice joins in at the lyrics.

_"No one knows what its like, to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind blue-."_

The wireless rings in his hand, ID reading Stacy.

"Nice, ha." He starts with sarcasm on full blast.

"I'm guessing this is your lovely bedside manner." She replies nonplused.

"Hole in one." The inside joke acknowledges.

"House…" Her voice is a threat and a plea at once, but soon turns professional. "Did any of these patients die?"

"None."

"Than they can be convinced to… stretch the truth a little, convince them to say they gave timely permission to all your stunts. They did leave high on gratitude didn't they?"

He shrugs. "More or less. I'm not an attention whore."

"You think..." She bites. "Ok, so we've got the patient side covered. We'll still need medical justification. The ducklings-"

"The what?" House blurs out.

Stacy sighs. "Your fellows, the trio that tags along the ugly duck?"

He snorts. "And you're a regular swan."

"Whatever… The point is they'll approve of everything you did the treatment because they were involved. So their testimony is nice but ultimately pointless. We'll need Lisa and James as independent authority to corroborate everything so set your stories straight."

"Well she authorized most of it and he's an enabler but don't tell anyone."

"The prosecution will take care of it. Which is why we need other staff as character witnesses."

"Good luck with that. The transplant committee suspects I swindled them, as does the ethical board."

"Can they prove it?"

"You're not gonna ask if I did it?" He mops insulted.

"I know you did it - your patients are a religious cause to you." She answers with certainty. "Can they prove it?"

"No."

"Anyone else hates your guts?"

"I lost the hospital a zillion bucks and a shift-load of nurses, so those aint too happy with me either. Peves is peeved as well, and so is everyone other surgeon."

"Is there anyone who doesn't think you a complete ass?" She pleads. "The fellows?"

Silence.

Her groan is enough. "Spit it out."

"I fired Chase, so don't expect praise form him. Or Forman, he left because he doesn't want to become me. Cameron left too, though not out of malice."

"So the only person who likes you is useless because she likes you a bit too much."

"Yeah."

"Will anyone say your methods are wierd but they work?"

"Half the medical world should. But I wouldn't be surprised if they lied."

For a short while the other end is silent. "I'll take the case."

"You sure? I'm infamous - this trial will be all over the place. I go down I take everyone around me for the ride. Your career will be as good as dead."

"Cuddy always has a place for an unemployable expert." She jokes.

House chuckles at that. "I should warn you, the salary sucks."

"I owe you."

"Failing to save Mark would have cost me nothing." He reminds. "Hell, I may even have gotten you back." The blend of snark, mischief and seduction is back in his voice.

"Yet you did save him."

"First, do no harm." He recites the age old oath, implying it was all just a job.

"I took your leg." She sounds apologetic. "The least I can do is try to save the rest of you."

The silence between them seams endless.

"Thanks." He leaves her speeches, conversation over with a click.

**…**

Strolling in for work the next noon, House is drawn to the unfamiliar noise coming from the convalescence section.

"Oh, good." House chimes to a thirty something blond, swarmed by a dozen preteen brats. "You saved me a trip." He smiles, and not as courtesy to her.

"Glad to have helped mister-"

"Doctor." He immediately corrects.

Unconvinced, she eyes his appearance with suspicion.

House sighs his annoyance. "Yo Cuddy!" He leans back into the main hall. "Oh, Cuddles!!"

"What?" The dean stomps into view, irate.

"Do I work here?" He blinks innocently.

"Unfortunately." She mutters on the way back.

Messy eyebrows rise victoriously, high forehead streaking. "Satisfied?"

Dropping her guarded stance, the blonde nods a begrudging approval. "What do you need doctor…" she again fishes for a name.

"Anyone who saw Mike fall." He evades the unspoken question.

"Matt."

"Whatever." House studies the kids, finding one that looks concerned, but for his own ass rather than Mike's. Somewhere in his mind a light bulb plinks on. "Everybody lies…"

"Excuse me?"

"I want him, him and… him." House singles out three boys, prompting looks of surprise, awe and panic from the teacher, class and trio respectively. "In private" House ads. "Doctor-patient confidentiality." He tires a lie, hoping for her ignorance.

The teacher crosses her arms defensively. "I can't leave them."

"Cant?" He frowns. "Joined at the hip or have you grown an umbilical cord?" He looks about her in mock examination.

"What's an umbilical cord?" A freckled girl looks up at her teacher.

"Are you more afraid to leave three quiet kids with a doctor or two dozen curious ones alone around all the sickos? 'Cuz I'm pretty sure you won't all fit in there." He pointes at a nearby room with blinds conveniently shut.

"Five minutes." She stands her ground before urging the anxious boys in with a look.

Not a minute later a loud wail fills the hall.

"We never beaaat hiiim." Barely articulate, high pitched wines come from behind the white blinds. "I swe-e-e-ar." The boy breaks into loud sobs.

"What's going on!?" A shocked teacher bursts in.

"Extracting a confession." House looms over s sniffing kid.

Alerted to the noise, Cuddy fights her way through the class. "What have you done to the kid, House?"

"Truth serum." House proudly holds up a huge syringe.

Cuddy frowns befuddled. "That's saline."

"Isn't placebo great?" He smirks superiorly at the simple implement of terror. "I wonder if adults are this gullible - It would make my job a lot easier not having to weed out the lies."

She sighs at another ethical breach, a lawsuit hot on its heals. "Did you at least get anything for my trouble?"

"Kid's reflexes are fine. Fell while the little bandits were trying to snatch his backpack." House casually points at the guilty party with the injection, needle passing inches from their scared faces. "Hands got tangled in shoulder straps preventing a break-fall." His lower lips pouts in thought. "That leaves the question of older bruises."

"Earlier bullying?" Cuddy offers the obvious explanation.

"They only pleaded guilty for theft, not violence." He nods at the brats being ushered out with words of comfort and threats of repercussions.

"They lied?" She suggests, wondering where his usual doubt disappeared.

"That scared? No way."

"Fine, what _could_ have caused it then?"

Hose merely shrugs. "I don't know, but biopsy might."

"Talk. To. The. Father."

**…**

"You don't know why he fell?" A worried looking man frowns his concern.

"We know why he fell this time." House answers. "It's the previous dozen bruises that are bugging us."

"Mattie hasn't told me anything, he seems okay."

"Seems being the key word."

The father shrugs. "You know boys play rough. I'm sure it's nothing."

House nods in apparent agreement but the pouted lip told otherwise. "Still, I'd like to do a few more tests, just to rule out everything."

"What kind of tests?"

"Nerve biopsy. We take a nerve cell to study." House elaborates.

Patrick waves his hands in protest. "No way."

House fights the urge to roll his eyes. "This is standard procedure done dozens of times a day across the country. With proper execution it has no side effects."

"No." the father shakes his head.

He sighs. "It's sounds scarier than it is."

"You're not touching him! I'll keep any eye on him. If I see anything, anything at all, we'll come back. But I won't have you doing risky painful tests on him for nothing."

"It's not nothing." House insists. "You're being unreasonable."

"YOU'RE unreasonable!" Patrick steps up to House, finger hovering threateningly an inch form the doctor's face.

A detail catches Greg's attention, turning startled alarm into thoughtfulness.

Having vented his anger, the man pulls back. "I'm taking him home." He mutters.

"I'll clear the discharge papers." House plays timid but heads, unbeknownst to the man, for the administrative section. Once round the corner he types a short message into the phone and mails it.

Arriving in the OR observation balcony, House braces himself for the talk. "It _is_ injury."

Cuddy spins around startled but it only lasts so long. "I thought you ruled out bullying."

"He's not lying about classmates but he is lying about not being beaten." House hobbles over.

She shook her head."The last bruise appeared while he was here, House. Nobody is beating him."

"Patrick is!" His cane strikes the floor forcefully.

Silence communicates her shock.

"Stress leads to low immunity, leading to illness, leading to weakness, leading to bullying, leading to teacher-parent talks, leading to drunk daddy beating the snot out of you." His waving hand counts each effect. "And the wonderful circle of life continues."

"What makes you think he's alcoholic?"

"Have you seen the guy's hands? I'm betting Jack Daniels dose his nails. Now unless Daddy dearest is removed form the picture fast, another cycle is going to be completed in some ten to twenty years."

"If you're thinking liver failure, there are other causes to it. Like medication."She barbs.

"He didn't even mention it!"

"Because it's irrelevant!" Cuddy matches him decibel for decibel. "Cirrhosis isn't transmissible, nor dose it have anything to do with muscle function, or balance, or nerves!"

"You and I know that - he doesn't. He's a car salesman!" The hand waves his exasperation. "The tachy was textbook panic attack! The kid almost scared himself to death and what for!?"

"Going home." She is concedes. "I'll call social-."

"NO." House protests louder than either expected. "You get those red-tapers it will be mutual denial and in the long run things will just get worse. Having the world turned inside out is the last thing he needs."

Cuddy jerks back, blinking her surprise. "Since when do you give a damn about how they feel?"

His sole response is staring nervously at the operating table behind and below her.

She huffs. "All right, what are _you _suggesting?"

"I'll figure something out. Just keep him under observation as long as you can. Do your med dean magic."

**…**

A twist on one rod swivels the blinds shut, leaving the doctor and patient in privacy.

Matt stirs awake, rubbing his eyes wearily as House hobbles over. Half-seated on the foot of the bed, he taps the bitchin' cane on the drab carpet. The free hand finds its way to his pocket.

"So… bullying..."

The boy sighs.

"That's a nasty one." House stares out the window, light summer drizzle trickling down the glass panes. "Fight back and you get punished for getting into trouble at school. Don't and you get punished for loosing stuff or getting them broken."

"Yeah."

"At least when you screw up the punishment's deserved." He scratches the stubble with his cane handle, eyes distant.

"Um-hum."

"And I bet it's no fun when dad comes home pissed from work either."

A sad little "No." escapes him.

"Yeah…" House stands up painfully, ignoring the dull throb in his leg as he leaves. "You'll get over it." He mutters on the way out.

**…**

House winds his way absently to diagnostics, bum leg dragging noticeably more than just half an hour ago. Fumbling with the phone, he tosses it across the room and the device clacks against the glass of his desk.

"_So… bullying..."_ His voice drifts muffled from the tiny speaker, followed by a short pause. _"That's a nasty one."_

Leaning against the frame, he speaks with the recording. "Fight back you get punished for getting into trouble at school. Don't and you get punished for loosing or breaking stuff."

"_Yeah."_

Mad determination overpowers pain as long legs carry him to the desk.

"_At least when you screw up the punishment is deserved."_

House stabs the stop button before the kid utters a confirmation. Wearily he plops in the office chair, one hand reaching for the drawer while the other rubs hard against the stiff remnants of muscle. A small plastic bag is fished form underneath a mess of ancient medicine journals, its content a copy of the rosewood box, but for one vial less.

Fingers grasp the small glass container, knuckles grinding against thigh in an attempt to confuse the brain with mixed sensations.

He tries the visualization technique, picturing endorphins flooding tortured nerves, but years of medication have made him immune to such weak treatment, and placebo only works if one is uninformed on the processes at work. He wonders if sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

The futile effort only makes him frustrated, stress enhancing pain like a lens. The vial snaps in his fist, glass shards biting into skin. Blood seeps out, washing the drug further away from nerves.

The aftershocks of that pain explosion are enough of a distraction for House to hobble to the kitchenette and the first aid kept therein. After treating his injury and clearing the mess, He pops open the orange bottle, shakes three pills to his palm and dry swallows the chalky poison of choice.

As the drug sets in he opts for a mug of coffee. Between sips of near scolding beverage his eyes wander the room, finally falling to waiting admission forms. Only a few lines are filled, the parent's names among them.

"Sarah Brown nee Donovan." He reads increasingly slower and quieter, an idea taking shape. "Omma..." House speaks absently before leaving, the coffee forgotten along with paperwork.

Trusted stapler in hand, he picks the lock of Archives, diagnostic penlight guiding his way.

"A-B-C-D, E-F-G" He sings in search of the desired shelf.

"D-Do-Don-Donovan." He flips through the files before plucking one. "Sarah." He flops it open on the first page. "Parents: Tomas and Marry. M" He places the file on top of the cabinet and returns to data digging. "Three children: Anne, Peter and Sarah." More flipping ensues. "Peter… and… Anne." He takes out two more, than carries the whole lot out.

"Indiana House." He smiles victoriously, circling their latest contact numbers.

**…**

Two files land on an open, cluttered organizer.

"This is the rescue team." House chimes from above Cuddy. "And this is evidence." His player joins the paper treasure. "A.K.A. blackmail material."

"Who are these people?" Cuddy shuffles between the files.

"His aunt and uncle."

Looking up, she notices the bandages. "What happened to your hand?"

"Leg pain." He bites off, all elation drained away at the thought of its cause. Spinning around, he drags to the door. Hand on knob he pauses. "Doing anything tonight?"

Cuddy blinks baffled. "No… Why?"

"Party at my place. Pizza, beer… the works. Haul Wilson with you."

"Birthday party?"

"Something like that." He shrugs.

"I haven't gotten you anything." She apologizes.

"Just be there." He mutters on the way out.

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	3. In da House

_**In da House**_

Dressing to leave, House hears the ping of an incoming message, hand stalled from deleting in the nick of time by the sender ID: 'Mercy Medical Center, department of neurology'

Behind the title 'weekly update' hides a number of articles, one of which is a promising study:

_Analgesic properties of nociceptor stimulating agents_

_form the pepper, chili, mustard and onion plant families_

House sits down, departure postponed, and downloads the file. Scrolling through the text his eyes snap from one key phrase to the other. A right click followed by a double click starts the printer buzzing, paper variant ready for use in seconds.

Reaching for an eye-sore of a lime pen, he the bites the cap off and begins marking sections.

"…strong, easy binding to chronic (C) receptors…draining of neurotransmitters...interrupted communication from body to brain's pain center...long lasting neuropathy analgesia… tolerance buildup to morbid neuropathy…weak binding to acute (A) receptors…no decrease in healthy noniception…avoidance of CIPA-like symptoms…Stage two study in progress."

Paper folded and stored, House rushes out elated, ache subsiding just from the news.

**…**

Scotch bottle flies back and forth over a string of shot glasses, filling them just short of the rim, while muffled whispers and bell chime come from outside.

"Use the key." Greg calls out to the waiting visitors, thick glass clacking against faux marble as the malt bottle meets its colorless counterpart.

Jimmy and Lisa enter into an aromatic mist of oregano and sweet peppers, large pizza sitting on the coffee table in a cardboard box, ringed by a trio of plates and a disassembled six-pack of dark, Irish beer.

"Food, booze and fun." Greg announces from the kitchen, hiding an odd tray in the far corner and safely out of view.

Hobbling over sans-cane, he makes a gimme motion at Jimmy, who holds up the flat, poorly wrapped present with a look saying 'this?'. Following a brisk nod the present changes hands and is promptly stripped of the rumpled paper. CD in stereo, rattle and a rising guitar whine pour fourth from the speakers, Greg's face a scowl of wonder until a piano joins in with cords of familiar intensity.

Deft fingers play on air keyboards, baritone joining an unknown young vocalist. _"Hell is gone and heaven's here, there's nothing left for you to fear, shake your arse come over here."_ He turns to Lisa and leans closer. _"Now scream!"_

"House!" She yelps surprised as he grabs her rear, stepping up close and personal.

"_I'm a burning effigy, of everything I used to be"_ Greg moves away, approaching Jimmy. _"You're my rock of empathy, my dear."_ He tussles the man's hair, than beats against the air as mad percussions come on stage.

_So come on let me entertain you! Let me entertain you!_

_"Life's too short for you to die, so grab yourself an alibi." _Greg seizes a beer can. _"Heaven knows your mother lied, mon cher." _The tin trio rises in salutation, half of the drink gone in the next lines.

_  
Separate your rights from wrongs, come and sing a different song,__  
The kettle's on so don't be long, mon cher._  
_  
So come on let me entertain you! Let me entertain you!_

_Look me up in the yellow pages, _

"_YOU will be MY rock of ages." _He reverses the lyrics, two fingers pointed at the pair of colleagues-turned-surrogate-siblings. _"Your see through fads and my crazy phrases, yeah."_

_Little Bo Peep has lost his sheep  
He popped a pill and fell asleep  
The dew is wet but the grass is sweet-  
_

"_-my dear."_ Greg brushes against Lisa's side, the whisper a seductive warm breeze over her neck.

_Your mind gets burned with the habits you've learned  
But we're the generation that's got to be heard  
I'm tired of your patient's and your job's a drag.  
_

"_I'm not going to end up like my mum and dad!" _

Can slams on the counter, palms slapping in time with the chorus drum section as Gile's wicked trumpet joins the show.

_So come on let me entertain you! Let me entertain you!_

Grabbing the cell phone Greg flips it open and dials with one thumb-press, front aimed at the nearest speaker.

_He may be good he may be outta sight  
But he can't be here be here so come around tonight  
Here is the place where the feeling grows  
_

The phone snaps shut. "I gotta get high before I taste the lows!" Greg shouts before grabbing a flying V from its corner post, fingers dancing over strings.  
_  
So come on…_

_Let me entertain you. Let me entertain you.  
_

Voice and chords build volume.

_Let me entertain you! Let me entertain you!  
Let me entertain you! Let me entertain you!_

_Come on, come on, come on, come on-_

Greg mouths the dying chorus lyrics as a Giles' solo reigns supreme till the end.

"PARTY TIME!"

Hours pass with juicy pizza and juicier gossip, spiced with side-splitting anecdotes. Finally, the last of the janitor stories is shared, piss-inducing laughter dieing down through chuckles late in coming. Finding his can empty, Greg lowers it to the ground next to the armchair, where it joins two predecessors.

Bum leg hefted from coffee table to worn carpet, he rises with a tipsy sway. "Need more booze." Greg ambles to the kitchen effortlessly, nerves of his dead muscle anesthetized with alcohol. In slow motion he brings the odd tray to view, 16 shot glasses atop it lined up in two pairs of rows.

"Is that...?" Jimmy's face is askew with bewilderment.

"The game of drunken kings and eccentric doctors." Greg declares, slipping the game board carefully on the counter top so as not to spill the spirits. "Shot glass speed chess."

Lisa and Jimmy approach the counter, eyes glued to the pieces.

Greg slides the board between the two and props himself palm-heels on the work surface below. "Make your move, ladies."

James slides king's pawn two forward.

"Bishop and queen opening." Greg mirrors. "Lame cheat."

Vodka kingside knight threatens molt pawn. "You know better?"

Molt queenside knight defends pawn. "Maybe." He throws them both a glance.

Lisa mirrors, a peace-offering.

Molt kingside bishop threatens queenside knight. "Sissy." He refuses the offer.

Vodka pawn threatens bishop. "Drunk." She bites.

Bishop retreats.

Other pawn threatens. "Junky."

Molt queenside knight takes threatening pawn, Greg downing his first shot. "Spinster."

Vodka rook's pawn takes revenge and Lisa follows. "Loner."

Bishop takes knight-killing pawn, threatens queenside knight. "Desperate."

Vodka knight retreats to counter-threat. "Hopeless."

Molt bishop retreats.

Lisa moves kingside knight to take the defenseless pawn. "Infamous."

Molt queen threatens pawn-killing knight. "Incompetent."

Vodka queenside bishop backs threatened knight. "Miserable."

Molt queen pushes kingside bishop's pawn out of the way. Greg downs the Vodka king. "Misery loves company." He slams it back.

And as if on cue, the stereo grabs everyone's attention, trumpet starting a good ol' fashion merry beat. This time it is Jimmy who sings along - off key.

_"What would you think if I sang out of tune,  
Would you stand up and walk out on me?"_

_"Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song"_ Lisa joins in with a far better ear. _"And I'll try not to sing out of key."_

_"I get by with a little help from my friends."_ Jimmy urges Greg to sing.

_"I get high with a little help from my friends"_ He obliges.

_"Gonna try with a little help from my friends."_ Lisa concludes.

**…**

"House!"

He pauses on the way through the lobby, head turned to the dean striding in from reception.

"I've contacted his relatives." She smiles. "They'll come for him in tomorrow morning."

"Father?"

"He'll be here in a few hours, but I moved Mattie to pediatrics so he'll be spending the whole day in play room with a few non infectious patients. A nurse will be there at all times."

"Except when she won't." He states factually. "No social service?"

Cuddy shrugs. "The aunt said she'll give Patrick a chance to drop the addiction before doing anything drastic. So far they're only wiling to limit him to weekend visits, not totally sever the bond."

A nod of understanding and perhaps approval before House continues for the elevator.

"Where are you going?"

"Pediatrics." He stabs the call button.

_…_

"Gooood morning boys and girls." House greets from the pediatrics door, a cluster of red lollipops in hand. "Who wants a sucker?"

"Me! Me! Me!" A small crowd runs over, raiding his bounty.

"You." House looks at Mattie, reaching for a loaded pocket. "Let's see your reflexes." He tosses the boy his play station.

Matt settles into a kiddies chair, House behind him, in a sofa reserved for parents, eyes locked on the boy yet wandering through his own memories.

Too lost in the game and thought respectively, neither of them notice Patrick's arrival. "What are you doing here?" The father questions House.

"Observation." He replies without looking from Matt.

"When will Mattie be released?"

"Tomorrow morning." Another quick and flat answer.

"Why another day?"

"Observation."

"Can I speak to you outside?" Patrick is impatient.

"Sure." House passes the man, not sparing him a glance. Having lead the way to a secluded nook of the waiting room, he turns abruptly toward Patrick. "Leave."

"What?"

"Go in there." He points at the wall between them and the boy. "Say a few words and leave for work. Come back after clock-out, they'll be having lessons then. Drop in for a minute, than leave again out of courtesy. Do not stay over night."

"Are you nuts!?" Patrick is in his face.

House shoves the cane into Patrick's chest, pinning the man to the wall.

"What the-?"

"I know everything and I've got evidence. His aunt and uncle will come to pick him up tomorrow morning. You will tell him you're sick and can't take care of him until you're better. Make a scene and I call social services. Understand?"

Patrick scowls but nods non the les.

"Say goodbye to your son." House directs him inside, cane wielded like a traffic officer's baton. Limping behind the other man, he watches the display of affection from behind plexiglas, than follows Patrick out with a steely stare.

**…**

"I need you to keep an eye on a brat." House demands upon entry of Wilson's office, ignoring the presence of a nervous, balding man.

His unfazed colleague ticks off a finger at a time. ""One- I'm busy. Two - you don't have kids. Three - I'm not a baby-sitter."

"Good, because being a patient, he needs a doctor."

"I'm not a pediatric either." Wilson replies calmly, eyes on the file.

House shrugs it off. "Plenty of bald kids in your kingdom."

His attention grabbed, Wilson pokes his pen in the diagnostician's direction. "That is different."

"Hair-ist!" House shouts in disgust and leaves with a bang.

Wilson shakes his head, but doesn't fail to notice Greg's standing idly at his door when he should be storming off.

"You'll have to excuse my colleague. The line between genius and insanity is a fine one." He apologizes. "Now, the good thing is the cancer has been detected early. The safest and most drastic treatment is removing the lower third segment of your lung. Your jogging time will suffer but the chance of remission would be negligible. Other options include-"

He pauses at the sight of House pacing on the adjoining balcony, looking utterly distraught.

"I'm sorry." He stands up and moves to his own balcony. "What's bugging you, House?"

"Cuddy wants me to look after Mike." Fake annoyance is a poor mask for dread.

Wilson crosses his arms, interested in the turn of events. "Child abuse kid? Rumor has it you've been surprisingly good so far."

"Foiling authority – yeah! It's the exercising bit I'm not so good at."

"So?" Wilson shrugs. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I'll be just like him!" House explodes.

Wilson chuckles. "Of course you will, you're the perpetual ten-year old."

House groans exasperated. "That's not what I - Never mind." He retreats into his office, shutting the blinds.

Wilson scratches his neck in confusion before returning to his own case.

**…**

Cane handle raps against oak doors, metallic title declaring its owner one Anthony Bennet, MD, department of physiatry.

"Enter." Welcomes a warm bass.

House enters with the unease of one absent too long to just arrive without appointment.

In the warm light of summer afternoon, emerald eyes glow a notch brighter with pleasant surprise. "House?" The burly man greets rising from his desk chair. "Can't say I've been expecting you." He speaks with good humor, the first of etched lines and crows feet telling of undying optimism.

"Sorry 'bout that." House takes the seat offered. "Too many good memories here."

Bennet nods in understanding. "My condolences for Ketamine." Leaned back into his chair with entwined fingers resting on the folds of pastel green scrubs, he regards the visitor. "I'd strangle him, y' know."

A questioning frown prompts further explanation.

"That dipshit detective what's-his-name. Adding insult to injury."

The frown turns surprised and worried. "How do you know?"

Bennet shrugs. "Everybody knows-" He squints thoughtfully for a split second. "Wait, again!?"

"Yep." House pops, eyes downcast to the cane tapping nervously at his feet.

"Damn…" Bennet mutters, eyes dulling to a deflated, olive hue. "Something I can do?"

"Maybe have a few of your therapists pay him a visit?" Blue meets green, expression bland as if asking for a double mocha.

Bennet chuckles. "Seriously, what are you here for?"

"I want in." House hands over a folded paper.

A minute of careful scanning later, Bennet nods. "But you bombed too many studies to be accepted in one."

"Bingo."

"Who's the head honcho?"

"Y'r old pal, Daves."

"Consider it done." Bennet hands the paper back. "Speaking of botched studies – your brain cancer was what exactly?"

House sighs. "Nothing."

"Look, I know your opinion on holistic approach and you know I won't bullshit you, but -"

House leans his head back and groans. "If I wanted psychobabble I'd chat with Wilson. I'm not in pain because I'm depressed, I'm depressed because I'm in pain."

Bennet's grin is a wide and bright non verbal 'gotcha'.

Realizing what he just blurred out, House jumps to his feet. "I'm not miserable!" He gestures wildly.

"Just not happy either."

The nod is heartbreaking.

"And it's only healthy that you are. Hell I'd be depressed if my head was doing five to nine twenty four - seven."

"Migraines."

Bennet nods. "Not as tough as your quad, and nowhere nearly as constant but still…"

House scoffs. "What do you do – meditate?"

The snort is half amused. "You kidding me?"

"Shrooms, weeds..."

"Got that right." Bennet leans forward in preparation for a pep talk. "The physical and emotional pain-pleasure mechanisms are entwined." He explains. "Because you're developing tolerance to pain killers and increasing the dosage, the little things that make the rest of us happy don't do the job for you any more. That's why you race from case to case. The high of saving someone is the only thing that can keep you marginally content."

"Preaching to the choir, here." House starts spinning the cane.

"You on antidepressants?"

"Tried them - don't work, just make me hazy."

"You have to understand placebos are a bit more complicated than most people think. Its not just thinking the substances are genuine. Don't believe you deserve to be cured, you won't, no matter how much pills you pop or what kind."

"Why would I-?"

"I don't know!" Bennet flings his arms out expressively. "I just say what I see. You're self-deprecating all the way."

"And you're being Wilson again."

Bennet takes a moment to swalow the bitting comeback. "I've never seen a fighter like you, House. If you could only get your subconscious to stop sabotaging everything…"

"And now the big butt." House deflects with a joke.

Bennet chuckles. "Read my lips – personalized treatment. I get that talking doesn't work for you. So no shrinks and no ice. Piperine injections for the thigh, antidepressants for depression and for self worth issues do whatever that _does_ work for you. Just wrap your head around one fact - you _do_ deserve to be happy."

"Right…" He leans in, chin on cane. "Except I'll be dependent on two pills."

"Hopefully the experiment treatment will work. Than we'll cut off the narcotic and without that messing with your pleasure center, the antidepressant too. For now…" He grabs a prescription pad.

"Can you write last month's date?"

The glance of wonder lasts only a second. "Sure." Bennet hands House the prescription. "I'll leave the gym unlocked at night as usual."

They part with an exchange of nods.

"I want you jogging up stairs by next summer." He calls out after the leaving diagnostician.

**…**

"House…" A worried Wilson appears from behind the diagnostic's sole solid wall, Inquirer folded open on some rear page. "What's this?" He holds the magazine for the older doctor to see. Bold title proclaims 'Princeton's (in)famous doctor - Dr Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?'.

"Tritter's attempt at discrediting." House leaves for the kitchenette, unworried. "Luckily, it will only result in me being spared clinic duty. Desperate folks will keep coming."

"Unless they throw you in jail." Wilson reminds. "When were you going to tell us?"

House blinks. "There's more than one James Evan Wilson? Or do _you_ have an evil twin?"

"Oh, stop it! You weren't going to tell us, were you? You were hoping we'd get a subpoena and not be mad for being unininformed?"

"Why do you ask rhetorical questions only to answer them yourself?" House tears open a bag of chips and takes one. "Might as well skip straight to the answer."

"Stop evading! Do you even have a lawyer? And don't tell me you've kept Brown, he told you to give up. You had better found someone else."

"I did, I do, he's fired." Hosue keeps munching.

"Who?"

"Who who?" He evades.

"Who did you get?" Wilson's patience is running thin.

"Stacy."

Wilson does an exasperated one-eighty. "Oh for the love of-"

"A-a-a!" House interjects. "No dirty words in my office."

"This better not be romantic melodrama take three, House!"

House crumples the bag angrily and flings it in the trash. "The hell is your problem Jimmy?"

Wilson stares speechless, jaw to the ground. "My problem?"

"Your _only_ friend is facing possibility of jail, and all you can do is criticize. What happened to Dr. Caring, or is that only reserved for perfect strangers?"

"Right, the enabler is being tough."

"Fuck it, Jimmy, this is not about you!" He slams the cane against the table. "This is not you being out of the loop, its me being indicted." Walking aid flies from person to person. "Why didn't you come in offering help instead of picking on the first flaw you could find?"

Shocked by the outburst and not a little embarrassed, Wilson just stands there.

"Just forget it." House storms out.

…

In Greg's eyes, there is no better therapy than speed, no better outlet than the highway. Which is why the sight of Wilson, seated at his apartment entrance, is such a terrible way to end one.

"What do you want?" He barks upon dismounting.

Wilson looks guilty as sin. "I've come to apologize." He watches House enter the building.

"Why do it in the first place?" The clack of key in lock is loud, screaming of passive aggression. "Mad you didn't get the exclusive?"

"You think this is about gossip?" Wilson follows in, beyond incredulous. "Why couldn't you trust me with this?"

"Trust is a two way street, Jimmy." House storms down the hall.

Dumbfolded, Wilson strides to catch up. "When did I not-"

"Never!" House snaps back, cane thrusting door into the wall. "None of you!" He turns to face the other man. "When I needed morphine it wasn't drug tolerance, it was Stacy. When ketamine failed it wasn't neuropathy, I was lazy. When I misdiagnosed a girl it wasn't withdrawal, I was stoned. When I punched Chase it wasn't my last straw, I turned violent. When I stole painkillers it wasn't desperation, I was scum. Hell even when I do the right thing, you twist it. I end an affair and its self destruction. I diagnose a man, you turn it into guessing. And then you lie!" He pokes the cane in accusation. "I loose control of my body and instead of showing some understanding you make me believe I'm loosing my mind too!? What kind of fucked up idea of friendship do you operate on, Wilson!?"

"I, I was only trying to-"

"Help me?" House towers over the younger man. "Fix me?" His anger grows. "All my life people have been trying to fix me. You turned an open, adventurous, bright kid into a lonely cripple!" Hands flail out in self-display. "What made you think I needed fixing? What good did your help do? Why could no one give me the benefit of the doubt? Or do I draw you people in?"

"What do you mean?" Wilson's face is a scowl.

"Am I that pathetic?" His voice is a plea for the contrary. "He really messed me up that much?"

"House, what are you talking about?" Wilson implores.

"Do the math, Freud." House mutters, passing him by on the way back to the living room. Slumped on the sofa he hears a hesitant approach.

"You're Mike, aren't you?"

Silence screams Greg's admission.

"Good god... What did he do to you?" Wilson sits next to his friend, taking in the broken posture.

Staring at his feet, House shrugs. "Nothing you haven't, only sooner."

Wilson mimics Greg's appearance, idle hands fumbling with one another until - "I'm sorry. About everything. I really am."

"Fat load of good that'll do me now." House mutters.

"What would?"

"I don't know…" Tiredly he rubs the brow. "The fellows. DA is going to use them against me, paint me a Frankenstein for the jury. You're right - I'm not who they think."

"I'll make sure they know it." Wilson rises. "Wanna go out for a drink?"

House shakes his head.

"I'll see my self out." Wilson jangles the keys.

"Night, Jimmy."

"Good night."

**…**

Doorbell wakes House from a restless sleep in the ungodly hour of eight in the morning. "Go away." He mutters, head sandwiched between mattress and pillow to block out the shrill.

"Anybody home!?" Shouts a young tenor. "Urgent delivery!"

Peeking from the pillow, House squints down the hall. "Where from!?"

"Mercy Medical!"

"Gimme a minute!" He demands, sitting up slowly. One hand on the cane and the other on the wall of shelves, House drags through the house. "Stay right there!" Opening the door, he first eyes the sturdy box. "Daves? Neurology?"

"Uh… Yes."

Having signed, House takes the package and closes the door, not a word offered to the delivery man.

With a dull thump it lands on the kitchen island, stake knife making short work of the box. Beyond the ruffling of bubble wrapping is a large self-medicating kit, containing an injection pen, several dozen vial cartilages and an instruction booklet. Picking through the medication, he reads the labels, noticing the scoville number steadily growing with each cartilage row.

A short trip to the closet retrieves his jacket, a pill bottle taken from each of the side pockets: the ubiquitous clear orange one and a new, opaque white. House drops two chalky ovals into the ceramic mortar, adding a round pill as emotional antidote. Few good bangs and the threesome is pulverized, ready for quick absorption.

He consumes the powder as additive to fruit juice for easier stomaching of its bitterness. Once the glass is emptied, its time for the experiment part of experimental treatment.

Seated, House rolls up the pant leg of his pajamas, eyeing the shocking relief with disdain. Firm grips massage the remnants of muscle, generously perfusing it with blood in advance of the injection. Six hair thin needles puncture the skin, warmth dissolving the aching cramp.

But as time goes on the warmth turns to uncomfortable heat, radiating through his leg and beyond to consume the entire body in searing pain. His face crumples, breath deep and haggard, beads of sweat lining face, chest and upper back.

Stumbling from wall to wall, he makes his way to the bath, twisting both handles all the way till lukewarm water explodes over the tub. House switches from faucet to shower and grips the vertical support bar, stepping in clothed. He leans on the wax-painted wall, forehead pressed against cool, smooth metal of the bar as torrents travel down his burning limbs. But the chill is only causing hypothermia, the internal fire not one flicker lesser for it.

In dire need of a distraction, he seeks out the family jewels, groans of pain mixing with those of pleasure. Careful ministrations, drawn long to give the opiate time to kick in, keep him from screaming his lungs out, until he can hold back no more, and so heaves shuddered breaths at the burst of endorphins.

Exhausted from agony and ecstasy alike, he shuts the water down with weak moves, standing immobile in the bath, weight on opposite leg and arm, wet clothes stuck to shivering frame.

An untold measure of time trickles away before silence is severed by the bleeping of the fixed phone, a sound he is oblivious along with the rest of the world.

_"The number you dialed is disconnected." _His recording informs from the speaker.

"_Greg?"_ His mother's voice, alarmed. _"Aunt Sara just called to say she heard a doctor form Princeton was accused for a whole lot of crimes." _

"Damn it!" He punches the wall, leaving paint chips on his knuckles and blood stains in mortar.

"_Some things said about that man are monstrous, but some things are so similar to you, its scary. Even his name is Homes." _She sounds terrified. _"Greg, call me back, please."_

Discarding the drenched garments, House towel dries, wraps himself up and hobbles out. Hesitantly he picks up the wireless and dials the last caller.

"Hey mom." House chooses his tone carefully, balancing between hiding his immediate physical discomfort and not alarming her inborn baloney detector. "Yeah, it's me." He admits regretfully. "No. No, I'd never do anything like it, you know me. It's just- A cop I pissed at the clinic wants to get back. … They _should_ be chasing the shooter." he's pissed. "Yeah, well Princeton police is stupid that way. … They can't prove a thing, mom, don't worry. … No! No, I'm not worried, I'll be fine. … No, you don't have to come-"

House sighs inwardly. "Okay. See you tomorrow."

At the sound of the dial tone he replaces the wireless in its cradle.

_TO BE CONTINUED_**  
**


	4. Family House

_Continuity error occurred during scene shuffling, detected and corrected. Apologies._

_**Family House**_

House waits the morning away in his office, safe from judging eyes of the gossiping staff, his hands busy with elaborate yo-yo tricks.

"Stacy called about your patient records." Cuddy gets his attention, but not his reply. "You could have told me." She walks over.

"No point in hastening the undesired."

"What do you mean?"

"Rich throw money at the place with the best doctors, because they know the administration of those places will force said doctors into treating the sick donors." He declares factually. "My success rate makes this place the biggest donation recipient. Their money pays for everybody else, which keeps you happy. But if I'm not here, throwing money becomes… throwing money. So donations dwindle and patient care suffers. People suffer. And you're not happy anymore. But you know all this, so if you know I'm indicted, you also know you'll stop being happy. Which makes you unhappy in advance."

"Which is not what you want." She concludes, a smile sneaking to her lips.

"Sorry for scaring away donors." He apologizes in advance.

She makes a 'who-cares' face. "I can always hire Foreman."

"I'd take Chase." He suggests.

"Good to know that." Lisa heads out. "Mattie will be leaving in half hour."

House nods.

**…**

A decent size white ball, yellow with age and heavily scribbled, flies from one gloved hand to the other. Owner of said ball is a lanky biker, astride on a badly scared machine. From within a matching helmet, a pair of blue orbs pierce the hospital facade, waiting for something.

An extended family emerges from the entrance, Matt, Patrick and a slightly older couple.

"Yo, kid!" The biker shouts and takes the helmet off, a scruffy, old face revealed in all its life-saving familiarity. "You forgot something."

"Thank you." Matt's reply prompts a roll of eyes.

"Something mine." House outlines a rectangle in the air.

"Dr Lisa is keeping it for you."

"Is she now…?" He fumbles with something behind the bike. "Catch!" The cane appears out of nowhere, launching the ball at Matt.

Catching the hefty thing, he studies the mass of signatures made in black marker, covering its every square inch, but for the inscription recording:

_Jays_  
'_71 finals  
Team cpt G-man_

Matt pouts with a studious frown. "What is this?"

"Yours." Greg slams the visor shut, revs up the bike and takes off in a cloud of exhaust smoke and asphalt dust.

**…**

'Hanson and partners, attorneys at law' stands emblazoned sterling on black. A worried face, long and unkempt, is mirrored by the plaque.

Unsteady steps carry the haggard looking doctor up a small flight of stone stairs, beyond two-way double doors and into the intimate lobby. Amber lighting is warm over white walls, deep wood panes and cream marble floor advertising the small firm's reputation.

"I've come to see Stacy." House off-handedly informs the receptionist/secretary, a young redhead on a semi-apprenticeship under the big kahoonas.

"Mrs. Warren has no appointments until noon." The lady leaves her post to catch up with him in short, quick steps. "You can't go in; she's researching a short-notice case." She is in his way now, petite size and fiery temperament earning her the label 'spark'.

"Yeah, I know." He moves in her face. "Cuz' it's my case."

"It's okay, Angie." Stacy speaks from her door and the redhead steps aside.

Without a look to the receptionist, House moves into the office, welcomed by the odor of wood furnish and dusty papers. The large, full desk is stacked with files and free standing papers.

"You've done your homework." He helps himself to a tall-backed guest chair, waiting for her to settle before explaining his visit. "I want to update my will."

Stacy's eyes, deer-in-headlights large, flash at him in sheer panic.

"In case we lose."

Regaining composure she shakes her head.

"Than I'm going elsewhere." He leans forth to stand up.

"Wait." She sighs, pen tapping nervously at the blotter. "All right. But let's go through the defense first."

Sitting back, he urges her on with a look.

"I've got the charges divided into groups based on their seriousness." Stacy begins shuffling the documents on his case. "I'll run you though them for worst case scenario to best. The first priority is to discredit accusations for violent crimes. If you're cleared of assaults, the leg alone would get you minimum security."

"Life sentence of clinic duty and rehab." He chuckles faintly. "I'd rather take permanent solitary."

"Hell is other people?"

"Hell is healthy people playing blame the victim. Hell is irrational nuts telling me to put my life in god's hands. Sorry, not after an infarction, neuropathy and two failed attempts of fixing it." Angrily he shakes four fingers between them. "God is one sick bastard." House mutters bitterly, eyes downcast and unfocused.

"Maybe, but sex offenders don't have a long life expectancy."

"Good."

"Greg!"

"It doesn't matter if you get me into club fed, Stacy. I've got no life, no fulfillment or purpose outside medicine. Odds are I'll be assigned to the prison infirmary, taking orders from some med school failure too dumb to get hired in a public hospital. And what am I going to do in my free time - watch _other_ inmates do sport?"

Her posture sinks with remorse. "You can't think like that."

"No, always look on the bright side of life." He mocks. "What bright side? What are they going to do after d-tox? Give me paracetamol? That'll only shoot my liver. Let the cripple die a slow, agonizing death, just so they can feel good about helping an addict and keeping the streets safe. Self righteous asses."

The silence following is drenched in bitterness and sadness respectively, and she knows full well why he considers taking the easy way out.

"What do you suggest we do?" Stacy offers.

"Challenge the addiction claims." He states simply. "If they jail me for everything but drugs I get to stay medicated. No pain, no rehab…"

"All right, that's plan A. What else?"

"Child abuse. I want that discredited beyond doubt." His expression is rock solid.

Stacy nods in complete understanding. "Your past is our best argument."

A snort is all the reply she gets.

"I'll do the will if you let me at least prepare this as a last option. Think of it as Plan Z."

Greg shakes his head. "It' would kill her. It would serve him right, but it would kill her."

"More than finding out her son died in prison?" A lawyer never asks a question to which she doesn't all ready know the answer to. "I promise to only use it as last resort."

"I don't want their pity." Nervously he rolls the cane over his thing, or maybe to massage the muscle inconspicuously, now that psychosomatic pain joined the party. "I don't want them to pigeon hole me under abused kid. He does _not_ define me."

"Your jack-ass-ness is your own." She agrees with a knowing grin.

The silence between them is long, void of both tension and camaraderie.

Finally, she goes for the ugly. "On the off chance they win?"

"Sell everything I've got and fund a wing for chronic pain research. Gile's trumpet alone will make a million."

"Giles? As in John Henry?"

A nod.

Warm browns narrow thoughtfully. "Any other celebrity you treated?"

"That African doctor, tuberculosis guy."

A smile softens her angled face. "This is so good."

"Hm?"

"Our 'get out of jail free' card – the sheer number of people you saved that were other wise doomed. Even if they find you guilty on all charges, locking you up would be a death sentence to so many innocents they wouldn't dare do it."

"Let's hope so." He sighs, than points his chin at her bloater, or rather beyond it. "How far along?"

"Should have known…" Stacy shakes her head. "What gave it away?"

"No coffee mug, twins beginning to rival Lisa's." He tips his head at her chest. "Dry munchies indicate nausea." He thumbs the bowl of biscuits. "Means its under three months…"

"Ten weeks." She admits.

"Congratulations." House stands, hand offered.

"Thank you." She accepts, watching him leave with a heavy heart.

**…**

The scenic ride home is a soothing experience, the feeling of flight almost liberating as wind roars around him, clothes flapping from its force. But turning the corner into Baker street, House is distraught by the sight lof ights on in his ground-level apartment.

Pressed against the front door, he finds them un-tampered with and hears the clatter of – cutlery? Unlocking the door carefully, House sneaks in, cane gripped tightly in hand. Even though it's not the maid's day to visit, the living room is Wilson-ized – bereft of clothes, takeaway cartons and beer cans.

"I have a weapon and I'm not afraid to use it!" He shouts from the miniature lobby, instantly stopping all sounds.

"Greg?" Replies an aged soprano.

He blinks. "Mom?"

True enough his parents step from the twin kitchen and dining room.

"What are you doing here?" He can't hide the confusion.

"There's some kind of tri-state conference in town." John explains. "All the hotels are booked."

"I see." Greg mutters, cane drifting to floor. "Landlord let you in?"

John nods. "Nice lady."

"Yeah." Bony fingers tussle up the helmet-hairdo. "Ugh, this is probably late hours for you. You can take the bedroom. Just let me get some covers."

Blythe frowns stubborn. "We're not inconveniencing you."

"You're not sleeping on those, either." He waves the cane between chair and sofa, returning her expression with an equally determined one. The glare he shoots John says 'wouldn't care if you'd sleep in an alley.'

Couple of hours later, Greg writhes in the recliner, light blanket tossed over his lower body. Sleep is elusive due to the uncomfortable position, and the fact his leg is never quite warm enough. His eyes drift across the darkened room from one knick-knack to the other until the true cause of his insomnia strikes.

A noise is missing, the kind one never notices until it's silenced. His eyes snap at the top of the bookshelf, friezing with abject terror at the void he finds there. "Steve!" Greg franticly scampers to his feet, eyes snapping all over the place.

His parents appear in the door frame, groggy from sleep. "What are you looking for?" John inquires.

"Not 'what' - Steve, a rat." He starts digging through the spires off literature dominating the apartment. "He managed to open the cage."

John winces in disgust. "That thing was yours?"

Greg friezes in his tracks, head up to face House senior. "WAS!?"

"Blythe found a rat, I flushed it."

"My ticket to Stockholm." Greg mutters, fingers buried in messy, dark curls.

"What?"

"The Noble prize!" His hands flail. "I tripled his life span."

John is baffled. "Why would anyone reward that?"

"They rewarded a schizo mathematician for games. They might as well reward a junky doctor for making a Methuselah!"

"So get a new rat." John shrugs.

BLAM!

Blythe staggers back in shock as John struggles to his feet, hands wrapped over a profusely bleeding nose. Hand fisted and body shaking from the adrenalin rush, Greg stands above his father as if in a daze.

"Come on, Blythe…" John speaks nasally, cartilage pinched to stop the bleed. "We're leaving."

"John-"

"He's gone mad."

**…**

There is nervousness to House as he stands in the DA's waiting room, Stacy pacing the time away with ease.

"Why make this appointment anyway?" He bitches, feeling all on edge.

"I've got a way to bring this lawsuit to a reasonable scope." She replies. "Just remember this is not a hospital and your opinion is worth zilch. Keep your mouth shut and let me handle things."

Before he can answer the whole-wood doors swing open to a serious room, half-empty bookshelves lined with photos of an aging woman, hair like steel wool, meeting political hot shots. The woman herself gestures them in, Tritter standing in the opposite corner like a stalker.

"My client suggests you drop the violent crimes charges." Stacy makes no room for fake courtesy. "Personally, I'd like you to keep them, just so I could mop the floor with your."

"How do you plan on that?" DA Sullivan replies, "I've got half the hospital as character witnesses, all against him."

"Professional jealousy." She counters. "We've got one superior, two peers and three fellows who say otherwise, and they have more experience working with him. But let's not generalize so much, let's go through this case by case. Take sexual assault on a minor. You've got a random janitor placing him with a teenager in the parking lot, we've got a restraining order – for her. You've got a nurse saying he stuck his head between a girl's legs, we've got her father saying he predicted, sought and found a tick in the pubic hair. Would a man invent that unlikely a story to protect his daughter's violator?"

'Chick fight!' Shouts the juvenile part of House's brain, the more mature one noticing the ensuing battle of ego's, inferred from the use of 'We'.

"Dr House repeatedly neglected to report child abuse." Sullivan plays a weaker card, but still potent enough to muddy the waters of debate.

"All disproved or denied, as social security records state." Stacy flashes a file from her briefcase.

"I'll admit, child abuse was for shock value, but the others are valid points."

"Maybe, but impossible to hold on to."

Sullivan snickers. "You wish."

"Push assault charges and we go for self-defense. It's gonna be a long, technical drag, right until the point we mention the fact his shooter was never found, despite the man's explicit identification. Similar with breaking and entering."

"We've got eye witnesses." Tritter interjects.

"Right…" Stacy is unfazed. "Neighbors saw strangers using the spare key. Yet nothing was taken. Could it not be that his fellows were allowed in to look around for medically relevant clues that solved the case nine times out of ten? As they will all say? As the patients and their family will all say?"

Sullivan offers only a sower look, a silent threat of vengeance.

"Patient endangerment, now that's a beauty – have you checked his success rate?"

"I've checked his insurance reports." Sullivan stands her ground.

"So have I. In fact, I've defended all the questionable decisions once already. Care to watch me do it again?" Stacy is on a winning streak and making use of it every way possible.

"I will take my chances."

Stacy nods 'fine.' And checks the indictment letter. "Assault on an officer… You must mean the thermometer incident. How humiliating it will be to admit being screwed over by a cripple." She play's on Tirtter's pride. "Or have your violent side exposed. Didn't your parents teach you not to trip the handicapped?"

"We can forgo that one." Tritter grates. "Corruption is a more damaging acusation."

"The car was a gift."

"From a suspicious character."

"Which is why it was given away at a charity auction, to fund medical research."

Sulivan is not threatened by the avalanche of counter-attacks. "You keep avoiding the big issue here."

"Substance abuse is fair game. We've got evidence he tried every option available to get off the drug, but if you want to wrestle, your choice. Just so you know - I've brought down bigger sleazes than yourself, Sullivan. If you need a crusade for the state elections, start with the police."

Tritter makes himself big behind Sullivan. "What are you talking about?"

"A narcotics detective making traffic arrests, prison and whiteness guards taking bribe left and right, beat cops arresting disabled people for parking on handicapped spots. I could fish out unrelated cases but that would be underhanded." She spares a second to glare at her rival. "Amend the accusation, drop as much charges as possible and deny them categorically. Save your face and blame it on the trash press making things up to promote sales."

"You're doing this for power." Stacy nods at Sullivan. "You're doing it out of petty vengeance." She nods at Tritter. "I'm doing this because he saved my husband. Which one of us is most motivated?"

Assured in her impact, she directs Greg outside, where finally his enthusiasm is let loose. "That was badass!"

Stacy beams, head high and stride confident. "Thank you."

**…**

A small whirlpool spins in bourbon, propelled by an even wrist roll, clear glass and clearer fluid reflecting flicks of a silent TV, its screen the only light in the whole apartment. Outside footsteps and rapping draw House from the revive.

"Who knocks these days?" He asks himself, slowly hobbling over, cane left at the sofa.

Opening the door, Lisa's face replies, except she is in full Cuddy mode, bossy to the point of allowing no quarrel. Wilson on the other hand is James, obedient deputy and shadow manipulator in one.

"Now what?" House sounds annoyed in a reflexive defense mechanism.

"Now we prep you for battle." Cuddy sees herself in, Wilson in tow.

He shuts the door behind them "I'm as ready as I could be."

"You're not going like that!" She threatens, long nail on longer finger sharp in the air.

"I'll shower and shave. Chug a bottle of mouthwash. I'll be decent."

Wilson finds the loaded glass. "And useless." He lifts it for all to see.

"Had I drunk anything, it would be empty, the bottle would be empty." Arm sticks out at the beverage.

"The night is young." States the younger man, bottle stored away and glass drained into the sink to House's horror.

"Is this what you planed to wear?" Cuddy lifts a dull gray suit jacket from the recliner's back, matching slacks spread over the armrests. "Find his black two-piece and get it to the cleaner's." She thumbs at the hall.

"It's a little late for that." Pointedly House checks his watch.

"I know an all night place." Wilson returns with a stale suit and pastel blue shirt, clean but not ironed.

"What's wrong with what I've picked out, its presentable." House follows him out with frustrated eyes.

"But not impressive." Cuddy counters. "First day is about impressions." To his bewilderment she starts fishing stuff out of her large purse: talcum, razor, scissors… "Want them to see you as renowned doctor, don't come in looking like a hobo." She grabs House by the forearm and guides him to the bathroom. "Sit." She shuts the toilet lid.

"You're not plastering my face with cucumber-salad." He plants himself on the spot.

"Hair-cut." She finds his shaver and plugs it in. "Face the bath."

Like a protesting kid he drops down, feeling a towel draped over his shoulders and his head pushed down. "No crew cut. Don't want to look like Forman!" House shouts over the buzz.

"What's wrong with the how he looks!?" She trims his nape.

"Nothing! I don't want them to acquit him! I want them to acquit me." His words dwindle to a mumble.

Buzzing stops momentarily.

"I've seen you in a black-tie ensemble; didn't take anything from your charm." Cuddy jabs sarcastically to lighten his mood. "Turn around."

He obliges, watching her prepare the old fashion shaving equipment. "All the more reason to drop the charade."

Cuddy effectively kills the argument by pushing his chin up for a better view. "Keep your mouth shut." Face wet, brush works up a generous foam from ear to ear. "Law is not our element, Greg. You want to win, play by their rules. If they say appearance counts, suck it up and take a page from Foreman's book."

Swipe by swipe the foam is removed, uncovering a decade younger man.

"Repeat in the morning." She hands him the razor. "And blow-dry your hair for now. Either you keep it under control or the prison barber will be doing it for you."

House nods absent minded, savoring the pre-infarction sensations of smooth skin and short hair. "Thanks." He stands up; suddenly mere inches form her, feeling odd electricity return.

"Anybody home!?" Wilson interrupts the moment. "Now there's a face haven't seen in a while." He comments on the not so much older man. "Suit will be delivered seven AM."

House takes the receipt. "Now can I knock myself out?"

"I've got better." Cuddy heads for the kitchen. "Out cold without the hangover."

"Anything else?" Thick brows rise above eager brown eyes.

"Shoes." House mumbles embarrassed.

Patting his friend on the shoulder, Wilson is on the job in seconds, leaving House humbled by the situation.

People he never inconvenienced himself for coming without summon to help him keep his freedom. Not sure how long he just stood overwhelmed, but it feels like only a second later a mug of warm milk appeared in his hand, giving off the sweet aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla mix.

"Settle in and sip." Lisa explains. "By the time it's empty you'll be sleeping like a baby."

House studies the spiral of brown and white in his mug as if it was the most fascinating phenomena in the universe. "Trial starts at eight." He speaks out of the blue. "In case you…"

"We'll be there." She reassures, and the pair departs with little goodbye nods.

House stands alone for a moment, palms wrapped around the mug to seep in its calming warmth, than turns off the TV and ambles to his room. Soon he rests half-lying, head propped up by a pile of pillows, running Murdoch's 'Orange Sky' in his mind as he sips. Guitar and vocal flow nice and slow, singing him to sleep with siblings, dreams, love and salvation.

**…**

There is an air of dignity about House as he walks through down town Princeton with his new look, fire cane traded for a telescopic walking stick, inoffensive chrome and rubber. Lack of tie is the last stubborn bastion of his informal individuality.

"You're early." He calls out to the tall brunette on the courthouse steps, her back to him. He cocks his head for a better angle. "And you've got me a cane."

"Not exactly." Lisa holds out a walking staff.

It the silliest thing he's ever been given, cheep and cheesy, probably bought from a fantasy costume store or those internet craftsmen that fancy themselves 'artists'. Shallow lines etched in black plastic criss-cross to form the scales of a snake, spiraling around in ever denser circles until it curls in on itself at the knob.

It's also the most wonderful gift ever: sturdy, classy, appropriate, and totally in character. Unbreakable epoxy with a rubber butt for traction, sanded dull gloss and black to match any outfit, the handle's diamond-net pattern engraving making for solid grip.

And there's one other thing, the most important thing - it's a staff. Canes are signs of weakness; staves of nobility and authority: the conductor's baton, professor's pointer, general's swagger… and for doctors…

"The rod of Asclepius, god of healing." He notes, holding it up for scrutiny, other hand folding the high-tech gizmo before hooking it to the briefcase.

"Power of knowledge on transformation of complements: health and sickness, cure and poison, life and death."

"Good thing you got the snake count right." He taps the thing, leans to test is support. "A caduceus would so suck considering I can't even walk."

"Like it?"

An odd expression of appreciation and pleasure adorns his face as both eyes and fingers study the implement. "Love it."

He is surprised when Lisa snakes one arm around his, but makes no attempt to break away, nor dose he make any hint at disapproval.

"Stairs." She feels the need to explain herself.

Sotto-bracio they ascend to face danger, House reassured by the simple fact of her closeness.

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	5. House of Justice

_**House of Justice**_

By the time the swarm of media arrives to hassle, House is safely seated on the wood bench of the court waiting room, small band of supporters lined up around him in a privacy-protecting semi circle.

"I've heard Sullivan paid a visit to judge Andrews yesterday afternoon, on down-sizing the charges." Stacy tries to keep everyone's spirits up with continuous bits of positive info.

"What kind of judge is Andrews?" Wilson is interested.

"Old school" She explains. "Stern and tit-for tat."

"Meaning…?" Cuddy urges an elaboration.

"He sentences property destruction with volunteer work equaling the value lost, and assaults with prison equaling the victim's recovery time."

"So if they find me guilty on drug abuse, every patient I've lost can be presented as negligent homicide." House takes the facts to their logical end. "Does he give capital punishment for murder?" He asks in genuine concern.

"This state hasn't seen one in decades." Wilson is quick to reassure everyone.

"Because last one got off on temporary insanity." House counters. "Based on my diagnosis."

"Than I'll have you declared certified." Cuddy pulls rank.

"Would you? Ha?" He makes a puppy-eyed plea, causing everyone to chuckle nervously.

Out of the corner of his eye House spots his parents, Blythe walking over with a soft smile and John content to keep his distance.

"Good morning doctors." Blythe joins in.

"Morning Mrs House." Replies the small choir, while House remains silent, feeling guilty for placing her in his situation.

"You look good, Greg." She offers gently.

"Feel like road kill." He averts his eyes as her own become pained.

Stacy glances at the clock. "Let's go in."

House comes to his feet slowly, the motion telling of his dull ache, and heads for the door with a ring of moral backup. John joins his wife silently; uneasy glances exchanged between father and son.

Greg stops at the door to medicate before the proceedings so as not to induce pity or indignation from any stranger present, timing perfect as Tritter comes over as well, a cold "Doctor." offered.

"Detective." Greg glares back, pointedly swallowing a couple of pills in front of the prosecution.

"Who's that?" John asks anyone and no one in particular.

Packing the meds, Greg bitterly mutters "The son you never had." and enters, striding down the isle with confidence and calm. No way in hell is he going to play drama for the gathered audience, ogling voyeurs with too much time on their hands and a weird choice of entertainment.

"Best behavior." Stacy reminds as they take the front row seats, Lisa and Jimmy just behind the low fence, his folk a few rows behind, a compromise between her need to be close and his desire to stay at canes length.

A courtroom of people rises on arrival of the judge, squatty with stern features and thinning gray hair.

"People vs Gregory House" Sullivan begins proceedings, prompting a stifled snort from House.

"One cop makes a people." He whispers, head down, Stacy quick to jab him on the ribs.

"…on account of substance abuse, patient endangerment and refusing to comply with a court decision." The DA concludes a heavily curtailed list of accusations.

"How do you plea?" Andrews squints at House.

"Not guilty."

Curt nod later the judge takes a pair of reading glasses to study a document at hand. "This being your second charge for the same offenses, I'm skipping preliminary and scheduling a jury trial starting tomorrow, same time. Bail is set to one thousand dollars, with the understanding you will remain within the limits of this jurisdiction at all times, and available to the officers of this court."

"We understand, your honor." Stacy steps in for House.

"Mrs. Sullivan…" The judge looks over his glasses. "No more last moment changes." He warns. "Court is adjourned." The mallet bangs, Andrews rising to leave and everyone else flowing suit.

House and company wait for the spectators to pour out before leaving themselves.

On Greg's approach, Blythe comments the start of trial. "I thought there'd be more."

"Scare tactic." House begins. "They were hoping I'd chicken at the thought of unending trial, tarnished reputation, loss of privacy, lawyer expense and what not. They were hoping I'd come running for a deal – couple of years minimum security prison."

"But you called their bluff." Wilson follows.

"So what's next?" Cuddy is curious.

"She grills me." Greg thumbs at Stacy, who rolls her eyes in response.

"You're the best one to rationalize your own actions, and if I call you to testify Sullivan gets to question you afterwards, when the annoyance and pain start coming back." She gives him a sharp look, like a teacher to a slow child. "Best to get your testimony out of the way fast." She doesn't need to elaborate on why, not to these people.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here." Greg waves them onward, but slows to a halt only steps later, gulping at the sight of a sea of cameras and microphones, waiting like ambush predators.

It is then that John takes charge, roles of commander and fighter second nature to the veteran marine.

"Anyone drove here?" He demands rather than asks.

"I… did." Wilson replies, wondering what John has in mind.

"Where's your car?"

"Parking lot a block north."

"Keys." House Senior holds out a hand. "Please." He adds gruffly.

"Blythe, take the rear fire exit." He jerks his head down a corridor. "Park the car as close as you can, get out of the car, ring me and wait on the passenger side."

Taking the keys dangling between them, she heads out slowly so as not to attract attention.

"You won't mind public transport?" He adds to Wilson like an afterthought, certain it is assumed.

"You can come with me." Cuddy interjects.

"That's done then." John answers for the oncologist. "Now the breach. I go first." The man thumbs at his chest, than points at Greg. "Stay close, eyes front, ignore the noise." You ladies -" He gathers Lisa and Stacy in a sweeping glance. "- flank him, chest to the vultures." Thumbs point outward. "Wilson, hold the rear, if they push you on Greg and he falls, I'll have your hide."

With the speed and clarity of a broken in cadet Jimmy spits out a 'Yessir.'

Just as impatience settles in, the first tones of a patriotic song blare from John's pocket. On cue he takes the corridor back, quartet falling in position behind him to form a diamond formation. "Ready?"

Greg takes a calming breath. "Slow and steady." He finishes the rhyming give and take, so common once upon a time. In a split second he wonders what happened between learning to drive the tricycle and school that turned trust to fear.

But the musing ends abruptly as doors swing open wide, releasing a flood of noise as the reporters rush in from the corner, the sea of people inching toward them like a sweeping tide. Moving in step with the older man, nose an inch from his nape, Greg actively shuts out the ever closer commotion.

In what feels like an eternity later, and at the same time only a moment, John takes on the role of vale, opening the drivers seat for Greg. The last Greg can hear before the door slams shut is reporters pestering his friends, and Stacy's defiant 'No comments!'

A thick, heavy silence fills the Volvo sedan as Greg drives off, father shotgun and mother in the back. Finally, as he pulls into the underground garage of Princeton-Plainsboro, he loosens the grip on the steering wheel.

"Do you think I'm an addict?" The question is painful and courageous to utter, abrupt and shocking as much as it is long awaited.

John pouts his thin-line mouth, mind torn between the alternatives. "No."

Eyes on the rear view mirror, Greg sees Blythe's expression and finds it useless. She doesn't know if it is true, because she doesn't know what John thinks, because he doesn't know what to think. At least he hasn't already decided on 'faliure'.

"It's a start." His statement is an unsatisfying conclusion to the clipped conversation.

**…**

Bleeps from the play station fill the clinic room as House kills time, cane and coat at his side on the exam table.

A knock forwards of someone's entry, and he looks up to see a young blonde.

"Wrong door." She utters on recognition and leaves hastily.

Indifferent, he returns to the game.

**…**

A tall, Hispanic bailiff brings the bible to House.

"That's not the most appropriate thing for me to swear on." He states, eyes on emblazoned letters.

"What would be?" Inquires the judge.

"I could do it the roman way." He looks up innocently.

Andrews passes a hand down his face, Stacy winces, Sullivan blinks bewildered while a room full of people murmurs curious and confused.

"Find something more appropriate." The judge gives House a pointed look.

On reflex, as always when in deep thought, House's eyes fall to the cane handle, but this time a pair of snake eyes look back up, and he gets that odd, distant look of epiphany. Slowly, he grasps the cane with one hand, the other raised. "I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

Sullivan approaches the bench, forearm on the barrier separating them as if this is a casual conversation, unnerving him with the intrusion in his personal space.

"Dr House, have you ever attacked a colleague."

"I have kept one from interfering with a medical examination." He recalls the elevator incident with Froman to evade admitting a punch.

"Have you punched Dr Robert chase." She persists.

"My medication was withheld." House growls back.

"Yes or no, Dr House."

"Yes." He spits, and continues to do so for the next dozen questions, as Sullivan keeps omitting context to build her case.

Yes he stole pills form a dead man, what's so reviling about that? Would it be better if he took it from the living one that could use them? Yes he walked into an OR and coughed at everything in sight, he saved two lives in doing so. Yes he broke every rule in the book, but following rules is what kept his patients from getting diagnosed and treated. Zebras can't be treated like horses.

Answers come out unfeeling, like he's talking about anyone but himself. House is only half aware that she is thanking him for the testimony with a heavy side dish of vindication.

Stacy steps out with a folder, turning the pages studiously. "Dr House, when have you started taking pain medication and for what reason? In layman's terms, please."

"A clot resulted in muscle death. The web of neurons innervating my thigh got stuck in a feed back loop while sending pain signals, which is why it persists long after the dead tissue was removed."

"Is there a cure?"

"None presently. Pain killers are the only available treatment."

"How effective is your regiment?" Stacy moves into dangerous territory.

House's eyes become cold steel. "It allows me autonomy."

Does it eliminate pain?" She pushes.

"It makes it manageable." He persists in avoiding admission.

"Why not take a larger dose?"

"It would interfere with my reasoning skills, making me unfit to do my job properly and place patients at risk."

"How do you know you have not crossed the line already?"

"In the last ten years I have only lost five patients to an untimely or incorrect diagnosis."

"Out of how many?"

"One case a week, one or two persons per case, fifty weeks a year, ten years… Five hundred patients minimum."

"That is more people than I can name." She makes a not so subtle hint to the audience. "Have you considered alternatives to Vicodin?"

"Yes." His voice is adamant.

"When?"

"When I started building a tolerance to the drug."

"What alternatives have you tried and what was their effect?"

"Induced coma yielded total but temporary pain relief. I was refused from one chronic pain study because it was limited to terminal cancer patients." He glances meaningfully at Wilson and Lisa, who's expressions instantly turn to regret and guilt. "I had forgone nerve transplant because it would lead to lifelong immunity problems, and am currently trying a new medication plan based on neurotransmitter depletion."

"During the temporary success, did you take any drugs?"

"No."

"And you haven't returned to pain meds because you missed the high or craved the drug?"

"My body detoxed during the coma, as for psychological dependency… Even with opiates I was never neutral, let alone high."

"I see." She states vaguely, as if it was enough to bury the subject. "What are your specialties, Dr House?"

"I am certified in infectious diseases and nephrology, and hold an honorary specialty in pathology."

"How many articles do you publish a year, in comparison to the average."

"One per major case, meaning several dozen, meaning up to ten times more." Conveniently he avoids noting Cameron wrote most of those.

"Are you asked to review papers, take consults, give speeches or lectures?"

"Hundreds daily."

"I assume you have to decline a vast majority."

House nods. "All but the consults."

"So you could live from fame alone but you chose to treat people anyway."

"Yes."

"What kind of consults?"

"Patients presenting inexplicable symptoms."

"In other words seriously ill people few other doctors could diagnose."

"Putting it mildly."

"Fifty a year?" Stacy sounds incredulous, hammering the point home.

"Give or take a few." House plays the modest role.

"Dr House, do you know the detective working on your case, and if so how come?"

"The detective was my patient in the free clinic." House keeps his eyes off Tritter, omission of name securing the man's identity.

"What did he come to you for?"

"He suspected an infection."

"How long did it take you to diagnose?"

"Five seconds." House states with pride.

"Would you explain how you managed that?"

"Upon seeing the suspected locale I noticed it was not infected but merely irritated. I advised moisturizing." House gives the child-friendly version of the events.

"Did he take your advice?"

"The detective questioned my competency and demanded I take a sample." House notices the prosecution side relax visibly at the omission of the cane-kicking incident.

"Did you oblige?"

"I took the sample and gave him a thermometer before leaving to check on lab works for the current consult. I forgot to return to the clinic." This time the prosecution seeds with repressed frustration, unable to protest on this omission on the fact the defense had them in a silent blackmail.

"Later that day you were stopped for speeding, correct?"

"Yes."

"Who stopped you?"

"The patient."

"A narcotic detective making traffic-related arrests. After forgoing a visit to his physician for a trip to the free clinic?"

"I was surprised as you are."

"The arrest report says there were unprescribed drugs on your person. Where did you get them?"

"At the hospital pharmacy."

"I submit the pharmacy log as evidence." Stacy takes out a copy of the document, parading it before the jury.

"And the ones found in your apartment?"

"During the course of investigation my medication regimen was suddenly and severely restricted without a medical reason, and there were signs it would be removed altogether. Pain, and fear of more pain, can make one act unreasonably." He admits the mistake.

Stacy takes on a thoughtful posture, arms crossed and index on chin. "Why have you punched Dr Chase?"

Nervous, House starts twirling the cane between open palms. "He persisted in stating my diagnosis of the current patient was wrong."

"Was it?"

House makes a deep, regretful sigh. "Yes."

"Was this before or after your medication was withheld?"

"During." He corrects.

"So the only time you were a threat to patients and colleagues, you were off the pills?"

His head goes back up, back tall and proud. "That's correct."

Stacy and he share an eyes-only smile. "No further questions."

"Court is in recess." The judge declares lunch break.

Limping from the bench, House glares at Stacy. "You lied."

"When?" She demands, incredulous, as they walk to the audience section.

"You promised not to play the pity card." He opens the low doors for her. "But you set the questioning up so that I'd be soul-spilling about withdrawal just when the meds start wearing off, sending subliminal pity-me signals to the jury - tone, posture and stuff." His scowl melts to an approving grin. "You devil you."

**…**

Cane raps against linoleum as House stands in the staircase, shirt and slacks replaced by tee and jeans, as he listens to the janitor moving in the gym after the last of the patients have left. Finally the squeal of tires tells of the man's departure, elevator doors opening and shutting before House turns the corner into the empty hall.

Inside, he leans the cane at a bar running the length of the walkway and makes a tenacious step, hand on thigh for feedback. Slowly he lifts the good foot from the ground so his body weight shifts gradually to the injured one, a shy smile stretching his lips as the toes peel off, gone in the next moment as he goes down. Hands clutched at the bars save him from a busied face.

A loud breath later he pushes himself up again, this time using the bar for support.

Over and over he crosses the short path, each pass requiring less weight to be shifted to the arm, for shorter and shorter a time. Each step with the bad leg slower and more alike the healthy one's, until, beaded in sweat hours later, he stands at the end of the walkway, a foot away from an exercise bench. The short distance is tempting and he again finds the courage for an unaided step.

Hands slip away from the bars, resting at his sides, as the bad leg moves ahead like a cautious scout, rectus femoris complaining of having to do the normal moves. Finding sure footing he leans forward lifts the good leg all the way, teeth sunk into the lower lip short of drawing blood. Incredulity trumps agony as he makes a full, healthy stride for the first time in almost a year.

Good leg makes touchdown and he makes no pretense at health any more, just lumping at the firm rubber seat. With a huge grin on his face he rubs the burning muscle vigorously, like a parent praising his kid after pulling off a difficult and scary task.

Looking up he sees something to wipe the smile away. In the dark of hallway and outdoors the glass wall and windows act as twin mirrors facing one another, providing him with a faint yet unwanted glance at his back, deformed to a hunch from the constant limping.

But that tiny step, despite pain and difficulty of execution, had a profound change. It was an improvement however small, and it brought a truckload of hope.

So despite tiredness, House turns over on the bench, toes hooked at the edge, and with fingers entwined at the nape, lifts his back clear off its surface.

"One…"

**…**

The week long trial has taken its toll on House, and he sits at the defendant's table looking pretty run down, waiting for the room to fill. He expects a crowd, anxious for the last few testimonies and final statements. Stacy's words from the time of making battle plans are vague in his mind, something about a parade of grateful patients, and he scoffs at the thought of being presented like Patch Addams.

House is oblivious to the initial proceedings, rising and sitting at the correct time only for Stacy's prods, while doing a slew of diagnoses in his mind, the simple referrals he'd usually not spare a glance for.

Than the highlight of defense begins, best saved for last and boy has the audience got lucky, free tickets to a live show no one expected.

Of course it begins low key, with young talents and small time celebrities like the rich guy a history of hippie and leprosy, oft read and rarely seen scandal journalist or photographer.

Than things move to bigger fish like the musical and athletic comebacks ranging from the little followed cycling to a press time bonanza the scale of baseball.

Finally, Stacy pummels the opposition with a one-two that is world famous charity doctor and none other than former president candidate.

Yet even here, after every positive review, some more forced than others, the prosecution is quick to point out every wild guess, aggressive confrontation and protocol bypassing. And everything Stacy did with House's testimony, Sullivan returns in kind, only on a far larger scale.

As the jury withdraws for a night of counsel, House has a sinking feeling in his gut.

**…**

Summer dusk comes late to Princeton, leaving the hospital in dull hues of blue. Cuddy descends the stairs, picking up on faint notes, vibrant and repetitive. Curious, she follows it to the psyche ward, finding Greg play pianino in the lounge. Without warning he jumps to energetic drum-like chords, feet stomping in place of percussions.

"_Out here in the fields I work for my meals, I put my back into my living.  
I don't need to fight to prove I'm right, I don't need to be forgiven."_

The low ticking of stilettos pulls him from the musical trance, blue meeting blue. A small eternity is suspended in the space of a second, their locked eyes turning saucer like. House turns back to the keys, starting a slower, gentler melody.

More easily than horns of Jericho, quiet tones bring down the concrete bulwarks of House, depths of Greg's soul flowing out in a stream. Lisa is unable refuse the rare invitation in his private side, taking a seat next to him on the small player's bench.

At the first chorus the song dawns on her, surprised he'd listen, let alone know how to play it. In the next instant she realizes that nothing could be closer to 'their song' than this, precisely because there is and is no 'them'.

As the finale comes and goes, Greg jumps back to the riveting melody he started with.

"_Sally take my hand, we'll travel south 'corss land  
Put out the fire and don't look past my shoulder."_

He sings the meaningful lyrics with an unwavering eye-to-eye she doesn't break.

"Greg…" Lisa pleads exasperated, but her choice of name makes it know she will in time consent.

"One for goodbye." The song trails off.

"You don't know-"

"Regrets are worse than mistakes." He cuts her off, than changes his tone to promising. "Third time's the charm."

The shot at motherhood is tempting, but… "Or an issue." She counters with the punch-line of a different proverb, reminding it could also be a third failure. "What if it doesn't take hold, or doesn't keep."

Greg shrugs. "Than adopt."

She rubs thoughtfully at her brow, torn between hope and fear. "Why you?"

"Why not?" His return is valid.

Lisa shakes her head. "I can't imagine why you'd want to."

"I'm an arrogant ass who thinks the world would be incomplete without a mine-me. Or I'm a half decent person who'd like to return a favor."

"And if everything goes well?" She faces her true issue. "If you're acquitted and I sustain the pregnancy."

"I'm not promising anything." The answer is characteristic in its blunt, inconsiderate honesty.

"I don't know if I could raise it around you and not-"

"You don't want me involved." He's self-deprecating again. "Trust me."

"So what _do_ I tell it?"

"The truth." He replies without a moment's thought.

She is somewhat surprised at that. "Either way?"

"Either way."

Tomes worth of unspoken understanding passes between them in a split second eternity, Lisa astride his lap before either of them know it.

**…**

"All rise." Calls the bailiff, while Judge Andrews climbs to his place of authority.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a conclusion?" The old man inquires.

A middle aged brunette stands up. "We have, your honor."

"What say you?"

"On the charges of substance abuse and patient endangerment we find the defendant not guilty."

Relief spills from the defendant's side in a tidal wave of sighs, all knowing the rest is easy.

"On the charges not complying with a court decision we find the defendant guilty."

Stacy and House exchange surprised, fearful looks.

"The court thanks you for your service." Andrews dismisses her and turns to House. "I hereby sentence you to voluntary work, in the duration of the rehab program, to be served in the at the community clinic in the capacity of physician."

House blinks in slow motion, strangled chuckles from the people nearest barely registering in his dumbstruck state.

The gavel strikes. "Court adjourned!"

Chairs moved, feet shuffling and conversations murmured add up to the white noise of a room being emptied. Commotion pulls House from confusion and he springs into action. The hair is tussled to chaos, jacket shrugged off, shirt pulled from slacks, its sleeves rolled up and buttons undone. Underneath, a tee reads 'Will diagnose 4 drugs', bold statement flying in the face of the loosing prosecution.

"Ricky's bar in five." He turns to the amused crowd and places his shades. "Beer's on Wilson."

**THE END**

* * *

_John Hopkins blue jays never made it to the '71 finale. Congrats to the real winners.  
Testify', from the Latin testes, 'nads, because the Romans swore on their manhood._

* * *

_**Next**_

**PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF**

**Critical Care**

House's brain begins shutting down for no reason.  
Are ducklings willing and able to help?  
Do Cuddy and Wilson know what treatment he'd prefer?


End file.
